What if I carried them all,
carried the immensity of your poisoned dreams,
your ideas of what I should be?
What if my shoulders tried to hold it all,
bending under the load as I stride alone
beneath the slender moon that trembles
when she sees the burden I carry?
Do I frighten you,
with the anger and passion and lust in my eyes,
with the words I use to defend my loneliness?
Does it anger you when I ignore your advice?
when I drive too fast,
when unholy words spill over my ragged lips,
when I forget to hide my arms under long sleeves?
And after all this time,
do you think I still care what you have to say?
Do you think you have the right to tell me
who I am and who I am not?
This is all I will give you:
words and fists, or perhaps words like fists,
all the pent-up anger of the good girl
and perhaps someone should tell you:
you cannot hold me, not anymore, not ever again.
I know where the light comes from.